The Secret That Broke

Can you keep a secret?

That sounds simple. Like you’re going to be dished out a nice scoop of gossip. It sounds interesting, intriguing, beguiling. Yet, still comes the pain. The struggle. The tears. All because of a secret. A secret that broke me.

*

It was a long, long tiring day. My back and head and neck all ache because of the strain. From the morning rush hour to volunteer work at PetLife to running the soup kitchen at a charity event to the constant hustle of the never-ending workload, with upcoming meetings, events, and projects on everything from sales reports, production finals, and budget analysis. Being a finance representative was the job I always dreamed of, but on days like this, it wears me down to the bone.

I have finally finished the last touches of my marketing paper. I lean back on my office chair and sigh, a dull headache throbbing behind my eyes. Am I overworking? This past month has been overwhelmingly trying for my nerves. But with the underemployment, my extra work was necessary for the company. And I couldn’t stop the soup kitchen or PetLife, it would be cruel to quit after working there for so long. And despite the eternal exhaustion, I loved working.

Of course, now was not the time to revel in work. I felt like my nerves were splitting into mush, and my muscles were numb from the running around from office to office. I sighed again, and stretched, more than ready to check out and melt into my next three days off.

As I’m walking down the block, my phone vibrates.

I miss you. Coffee later?

It was my cousin—and brother-figure— Norman Quillow. Of all the people in my family, he was the one I was closest to. Not only did we have similar interests, he was also kind, funny, and a very good listener. He didn’t call me out on mistakes, criticize my decisions, or mock my problems. Even my slightest anxieties concerned him, and he always made it better with ice-cream and movies. So despite my weariness, there’s no way I’d turn him down on anything.

You bet. See you later at Java

**

I had showered, ate, and changed before meeting Norman. Feeling rejuvenated, I walked briskly to our favorite café, Java Coffee. Everything from the fairy lights to the graffiti to the most delicious cinnamon buns made that place was Norman and I’s sanctum.

As I strolled, I smiled at the warm, radiant sun, with puffy cream clouds far, far away across the horizon and the distant tweet of a bird or two. The stream of cars on the road was very thin, surprisingly, and springtime’s orchids and petunias were pretty in their pots. The weather was very fine; clear, sunny, with a cool, pleasant breeze. I can tell it’s going to be good day.

I finally reached Java. The place was as fresh and inviting as always. At our tiny table by the neon fountain was Norman. I beamed at him then gave him a warm embrace.

“Hello, Angie, how’re you?”

“Good, good. Busy day, quite tiring, actually.”

“Oh yeah? Why don’t you sit down and tell me all about it,”

Then came what usually does. With my favorite macchiato(which he so kindly remembered and ordered for me) I began talking about my day, and the conversation whirls from everything, to soup flavors, to iguanas, to YouTube, to movies, to our feelings and then silence. It wasn’t the awkward, immensely uncomfortable silence where you rack your brain for something to talk about. It was a familial one where you could say nothing yet still say everything. Norman and I had that connection because we were closer than siblings.

“How’s Loraine?” I asked. Loraine was his wife. It’s no secret his marriage had always been an unhappy one. Their four years together was full of constant arguing to fighting then silent treatment to public embarrassment. Why they didn’t divorce, no one knew. I, personally, think it's because of the money. Norman and Loraine weren't exactly what you'd call financially stable.

“She’s okay, I guess,” He said with a sidelong glance. But I could tell from his clenched jaw it was otherwise. I put a hand on his wrist. Few months ago, he said that the he remained with Loraine because he thought he couldn’t get with anyone else. His confidence was broken that way. And in spite of my reassurances that he was a kind, charming, handsome, strong man, nothing would change his mind.

He sighed, and stared at his fingers. No. There was something else now. Something specific that hurt and worried him. When I asked him what, he sighed again.

“Angeline, I think…” He started, then leaned in. His eyes were clouded with sadness and anxiety.

“I think Loraine’s cheating on me,” He said quietly.

I was taken aback. I didn’t know their marriage had reached that point. It was shocking as well as saddening to hear. I waited for him to continue.

“She always takes her phone calls somewhere else if I’m there, and she’s always giggling anytime I actually hear her talking on the phone. And yesterday…” His expression droops, and he massages the bridge of his nose. I rub his arm comfortingly, feeling terrible. He was such a good person. He didn’t deserve such sadness.

“I was cleaning our bedroom, and I found all these necklaces and bracelets and perfume of hers I’ve never seen before. At first I thought she bought them, but her credit card was declined a few weeks ago, and if she took money from me, I would’ve known about it. So…”

He didn’t need to finish. I got up and went around the table to put my arms around him. My heart broke for him.

“I’m sorry,” I said. I wished I could make it all better, so I tried.

“Movie night at my place? I think you could use it,” I offered and smiled.

He tensed and stuttered, as if I had asked a nerve-wracking and flustering question. It was very unusual. He was never this nervous with me before.

“No.” He said it so fiercely I was afraid I had in some way angered him.

“I want to be alone.” I could tell it was more than that, but I didn’t want to press any more of his marriage buttons. Norman was very emotionally extreme. When he was happy, he was really happy. When he was sad, he was really sad. When he was angry, he was really angry.

“What is it?” I still ask, concern taking over.

He hesitates, then shakes his head to himself. “Nothing, I'm just… upset,” I hug him one more time, trying to push away the block of dishonesty he slammed at me.

So I bought him a cinnamon bun instead and switched the subject. He was much more relaxed afterwards, for some reason.

***

I was home, enjoying a bowl of American Dream with Netflix playing on the TV. It really was a good day. As soon as I was home, I pulled up a soothing, hot bath, dabbled a tea tree oil face mask, ate a lot of comfort food, and watched TV. What a good day. It was night time, a beautiful, creamy full moon, my favorite kind of moon.

I hit pause on my show, and took my bowl of ice cream to the window seat to look at that pearl orb in the sky. Outside, on the next house was my new neighbor who had just moved in, Eric. He was single, surprisingly, judging by the lean, muscled build, striking blue eyes, and whole ‘bad boy’ vibe. I was never one to be swooned by men, but Eric was a near miss.

He was there, on his porch swing, and with a woman. I squinted at them, surprised. He was stroking her hair and occasionally pecking her lips. But I was a thousand times more surprised when I recognized the dirty blond hair, blue blouse, and greenish eyes. That was Loraine, my cousin’s wife!

I was furious. I was angry enough seeing my poor cousin’s heart break. But to watch it happen from my own window? That was too far. I got up and put on my jacket, ready to clobber Eric and Loraine.

As I walked to his fence, he snags her hands and pulls her inside. Disgusting, I think.

But I stopped short before I even got to the door.

A jagged, piercing, brain-rattling scream cuts open the sky. It was a scream that will haunt me until the day of my death. Then a defeating crack. A gunshot.

The screaming continues, then is abruptly cut short by another shot. My legs suddenly break from the cold feet and I dash to the door and slam it open. That sight before will never stop giving me nightmares.

Eric and Loraine, both half-dressed. One with a shot in the head, the other in the heart. Their blood continues to cover the throw rug, streaming from chest and forehead to the ground. My American Dream struggles to stay in my stomach.

But I’d stare a thousand bloody, mangled bodies than to see the third person in the room. Brown eyes. Dark hair. A smile I always cherished and actually saw today. Dressed in black and a smoking pistol in his hand, still extended in the air.

Norman.

He was smiling. The damn man was smiling. A bloodthirsty, sadistic, bone-chilling ear-to-ear grin. I shivered, and he must’ve heard my sobbing gasp. His face twisted into appall, grief, and worry, all chasing after each other.

My eyes welled with tears. The blaring sirens outside were too much.

The red and blue fluorescent lights in the background were too much. The two bloody, dead bodies were too much. The resounding scream and bang was too much. I felt like I was going through a sensory overload over a single fact swirling around and around.

My best friend is a murderer.

So when the black stars took over my mind, Norman’s clear words went through my ears, clear and definite, wafting through my conscience.

“Can you keep a secret?”